


Gospel's just a funny word for Guidelines.

by LuciferIsSatan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - flipped sides, Angst, Demon Deals, Demon!Bobby, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Human!Crowley, Hunting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, mentions of torture, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wouldn't say he liked the things he's done to get as far as he had in life, didn't like the blood on his hands or the lives he could have saved. There was a lot of things he didn't like, a lot of people he owed to when he felt they were undeserving, and many souls he's taken to the call. But stopping the Apocalypse would never be that easy, and working with a demon will never make it all go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gospel's just a funny word for Guidelines.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Gorlassar, and based off of some art that they've done; hope you feel better by the time I get this blasted thing posted. Part two should be up shortly, too. ^^ Thank you for being you, you're a marvel, as always.

If there was one thing Crowley hated more than anything, and this was down to his core of honesty when it came to being truthful, it was demons.

Slimey bastards they were, the whole lot of them. The whole patch of them were rotten, spoiling the wheat that was the human race, and his duty, as the _ever_ so _charming_ hunter, or in this instance, farmer, was to remove this chaff from the wheat. Keep people safe, do his job, and don't fuck it up.

There's only so many chance's in life that he can take before it blows up in his face, or rears its ugly head somewhere down the line.

It was a thankless job, but certainly, someone had to do it.

And with the Apocalypse drawing near? It was only going to get progressively worse here on out, and those Winchester boys certainly weren't making any of this any better-- if anything, they keep shoving their noses in the wrong places, and eventually it's going to bite them sometime soon. Crowley worried for them, of course, if he didn't then who would? Not with Lucifer trying to escape the cage, and demon's pouring from the woodwork like spring downpours. The hunter has gotten more calls this past week than he has in several months combined, too many sighting, too many casualties, and nobodies quite sure what to make of it.

Meg had found a nest up in Detroit; Azazel found a few demon's gathering somewhere over in Massachusetts; Ruby spotted a batch heading up north. It was a constant, yet infrequent pattern of them everywhere. There didn't seem to be any sort of steady criteria to where they were headed, they were just simply everywhere, and there was no reason for any of it.

Rising from hell to watch the fireworks, he supposed, that with the first seal being broken and all. Heaven doing everything in its power to push literal hell on earth, and the battle between the two celestial brother's and all that.

Complete rubbish.

They planned to exterminate the human race that way the two brothers can work out a tiff, it seemed. It certainly put a lot of faith in heaven in question. Weren't angel's supposed to be..- more angelic? Weren't they supposed to be protecting the human race, rather than trying to destroy it? Where was God in all of this?

Crowley sighed, letting his head fall back against the edge of his chair. He fingered the colt between his two hands, tottering it back and forth with his legs crossed at the ankle, hung up and resting on his old oak desk. He heard one of his dogs trotting into the room, the soft patting of steps and Crowley made to glance at the creature slinking along; Growley looked up at the hunter while he was dragging his paws against the woodwork, making to flop down beside the couch. Juliet upturned her head from where she was lying, all the way across the room, before settling down once again.

Crowley chuckled soundlessly to himself, looking up at his hound. Juliet was a German Sheppard he had rescued off the side of the road, she was in pretty bad condition and with a liter of pups in her belly; Crowley could never abandon an animal- especially not a dog and had taken pity on the creature, taking the frightened thing in. She had her puppies not long after, and they were a litter of mutts of some mixed breed he couldn't very well identify-- he never got rid of them, however. Now that he thinks about it, he began wondering where they had run off too, somewhere upstairs he assumes; the closet door is always unlocked and there's a pile of blankets towards the bottom that they liked to huddle together in-- full grown dogs or otherwise.

And Growley was a big Rottweiler. Lazy grump that he was, was as loyal as a hound could get; not to mention he was one of the first few still kicking from all those years back, when Sam found the poor thing waddling on the outskirts of his yard as a puppy.

Crowley glanced back down at the colt in his hands, running the tips of his fingers over the cool metal and sharp engravings, vaguely wondering what they meant. There wasn't much, if _any_ lore when it came to the weapon. Just knew that it could kill anything in existence, and it was incredibly handy to have on his person. It's also rather dangerous for it to be in the wrong hands, yada yada and some other nonsense. It was a rather big deal and he knew it, he wasn't dense- but in all reality, it was still just a gun. A rather romanticized thing, but still, just a gun.

Crowley was aware that if it was widely known, however, that the blasted thing was in his possession, he wouldn't be safe for a moment. So he was careful, increasingly so depending on whose around him, and he never went on about what it's capable of. Only a scarce few know he has it, and even less have ever laid eyes on it.

Sam and Dean know, of course, they often take it for a test drive when they find they're in need of it. Meg had snagged it once, but ended up giving it over once she realized there wasn't really any good use for it against average demons-- saw no use in wasting bullets. Few hunters know of it's existence, and even fewer know where it is, and one of those people who know of it, but don't know where, is a crazed, blood craved man by the name of Alastair.

Alastair Heyerdahl, or most refer to him as "Notorious Al", or simply just "Al," -which Crowley thought was an utterly stupid name, and just call's him Alastair, because he thinks it fits better anyhow- wasn't really a hunter. At least, not a hunter that Crowley would willing converse with unless under absolute necessity. He was more of a psychopath than a hunter, that enjoyed killing perhaps a bit too much for anyone's taste.

He liked hurting things, creatures, but most of all, people.

He, more than anyone, was well aware that torturing the body of a person, possessed by a demon or not, was last resort regardless of the circumstance.

Alastair does it because he likes to hear them scream. Get's a kick out of screamed raw vocal cords, the splitting of flesh and the joy of a blade in his hand. He wasn't much like the other hunters, no where near. Too much, too dangerous, too out there, but he got the job done, that was for sure. Even if nobody liked how he did it, he did, and in the end that's all that truly mattered. Even if nobody agree'd with the methods.

Crowley would know, more than anyone some would say, considering for how long he worked with him. Hunted with him for years when he first started-- that being said, Alastair was the reason he had joined this lifestyle to begin with.

He was a kid at the time, early twenties with the world under his feet and a whole life ahead of him. Crowley was one of those kids who was always ready for some sort of adventure; Ready to leave home and explore the world and do something with his life. He was so young, so stupidly naive at the time, but again, he was still just a kid. His father was out of the picture by the time he was 8, and he lived with his mother for about a year or so out of highschool; she didn't mind of course, claiming she rather liked having him around, even when she was doing her silly little rituals she never tried to explain nor teach to him. His mother was a witch, you see, but she..- she was a gentle witch. Never harmed a soul, at least not that he was aware of. She was a healer of sorts, a magic-woman who cured little diseases and saved the lives of little ones suffering from something they might never have recuperated from.

It was months before he planned to travel, having set out to make a list of things he wanted to do, and places he wanted to see; how much money he had to save, and where he could stay. He was going to be prepared for the worst, but when the worst came, he wasn't ready-- that was the day that these strange men showed up at his doorstep in Scotland. They barged into his home while he was helping his mother make dinner; slamming doors and shouting, spitting profanities his way and shooting at his feet. Two large behemoths grabbed him by his arms and slammed him against a table, before they reached for his mother-- they placed a black bag over her head and took her away. Crowley can remember how he resisted, kicking his feet, thrashing about but there was too many of them, and he was shoved into a nearby closet, locked away. He remembers banging his fists against the door, hitting it, shouting at them, spitting curses at them to let her go, and then it got really quiet. Their shouts of laughter that were once almost booming were silenced so suddenly that Crowley had almost thought they had vanished in thin air.

He hit the door harder, shouted louder; he was panicking. There were strange men in his house, they had his mother, they got _quiet_. What could have _possibly_ been going on? The sound of heavy footsteps made him falter, and a soft voice outside the closet door began speaking to the men in his living room. He was asking questions that Crowley struggled to make out, his voice faltering in his shouts and then going quiet as he tried to hear the exchange between the men. Maybe to find out what they were doing, why- but all he heard were soft mumbling tones, and one voice that was distinctly different from the others.

It was gentle, held a sort of amused lilt in the way he spoke.

Crowley strained to hear what was being said, but he can remember clearly hearing, in a very strange and bland accent, "-..got the bitch, she's in the back..-" "..-had a kid with her..-" "..-didn't seem dangerous..-" and then there was a soft laugh and the voice's became mute beside's the one. Then footsteps sounded again, thudding rhythmically against his floor boards and approaching the closet he was standing in. For some reason, being let out terrified him.

With the door there, he was safe from whoever they were, but with it gone-.

The handle jiggled and Crowley stepped back involuntarily as the door swung open, to reveal a man, maybe about 6 or so years older than himself, tall and lanky, and all legs, looking down at him.

Crowley can remember him smiling, but it just-- it just didn't _look_ like a smile. It looked more as if someone had put two fingers against the edges of his lips and upturned them into his cheeks. All teeth, and gentle eyes that felt sharp looking at him, but warm in a manor that meant he was in no rush to cause any harm.

The hunter can remember every flick of his eyes as they scanned him over, before one eyebrow raised, inclining his head. He had asked, "what's your name, boy?"

Crowley had responded, through his fear and panic, "The fuck's it to you, eh?"

It received a delicate chuckle from the man in the door, but a few weary glances among the men surrounding them. The tall man had raised his hands in something akin to mock surrender, lowering his head slightly out of politeness. His grin had settled into a comfortable smile, lips closed and quaint. "I mean no harm," he had said.

"Then why the 'ell 'ave you got my mum?" he had growled at the man, but his attempts at being aggressive only seemed to please the stranger further; he looked more amused than anything else, looking down at him as if he were speaking to a young child. Despite the lack of a serious age difference.

"Now, now," he had reprimanded, and his voice held a tone of reassurance, and it sent the young man in for a loop. "She's a danger to mankind, and I'm simply putting her.. safely, elsewhere," the tall man smiled, "somewhere where she can't hurt a soul."

"And where's that?" Crowley recalled him asking, but the tall man had only proved to shake his head, ever so gently.

"Too many questions, little moth, too many and I've barely had my coffee," there were a few soft, hesitant chuckles behind them, "now, before we get too deeply into it, allow me to ask a few questions of my own. Quid pro quo, yes or no?"

He was hesitant in responding, he brows furrowing, but he complied regardless, nodding none the less. His compliance didn't go without praise, as the tall man's grin grew just that much more wider, that much more pleased.

"Good," his voice had been so gentle, so softly spoken, but his diction was impeccable, strong and sharp. "Name?"

Crowley faltered, having eyed him carefully before responding, "Fergus," he had said, "Fergus McLeod."

The tall man licked his lips, "Fergus," he had breathed, smirking around the name, "how fitting," he went to press his lips together, before shaking his head, "You look more like a Crowley, does he not?"

The men around the room had paused before realizing the inquiry was directed towards them, they muttered their agreement, some making a sound rather than an actual word. A few nods shifting here and there, and the tall man stood still.

"What do you think?" he had directed towards him, and Crowley didn't know why, but he agreed with him too. Something about him that seemed sharp, and ancient that kept him from arguing too much. The tension in the room was too high, and it would take years before he grew accustom to the name.

"Crowley," the tall man said, "are you into this witch business, like your wee mom was?"

"Was?" he breathed, confused. Blinking up at him, he shook his head, "No. Unless you count picking the flowers for her when I was a wee lad," he stated, squinting his eyes at the man, "what'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't," was all he said for a moment, seeming to evaluate something before reaching out his hand. It was pale and bony, and his fingers were spider-like, delicate, and slender as his fingers protruded from his sharp knuckles. "Name's Alastair," he greeted, "nice to meet you, lad."

Crowley stared at his hand for a few abundant seconds, before reaching out and shaking the mans hand.

His skin felt cold, his palm clammy, with a grip that felt like a vice. The hunter can recall the fear he felt when Alastair's long fingers collapsed over his hand, encasing it and shaking firmly.

There were minutes that passed after that which felt like some sort of unreal blur, with Alastair and the strange men surrounding him.

Eventually, with much reluctance on his end, he was taken unwillingly back into the truck that Alastair arrived in. Leaving the men he worked with behind, seeing them pull someone out from the back with a black bag over their head in the rear view mirror. And _oh_ didn't that dress look oh so familiar. The man forced him into a mission and journey he didn't want, and for the first month or two of it all, he was scared out of his wits; of demon's, of ghouls, and of all the things that lurked at night-- for the first time in his life, he feared of witches, and knights of hell; but most of all, he feared of Alastair.

He stood too presently about the subject, spoke about his hunts as if they were some erotic sexual fantasy he felt comfortable enough to divulge to the freshly recruited hunter. He called him "Little Moth", "Crowley", "Darlin'," and an assortment of other things he never bothered to memorize, mostly because they were derogatory and teasing and Crowley didn't like thinking about it. About any of it, actually.

They traveled across continents together, traveling over Europe in painfully long stretches of road. Alastair talking the whole while, catching the young man up to date, telling him little tricks and stand-by rules, and sometimes, when they'd stop in a quaint little village somewhere, Alastair would take him to some grasslands or forests, and prep him on shooting, dodging, fighting, the whole bit. The "training" was more debriefing, and he's almost lost his life multiple times during hunts where Alastair would throw him into it head first, only to interfere when things began looking grim.

"It's better to learn on the job," he would say, "shooting glass bottles doesn't have the same sweet adrenaline thrill."

Although he wasn't wrong, it didn't justify Crowley nearly losing his life more times than he cared to admit.

It wasn't long until Alastair began becoming a strong hand in the hunts, however, and soon it was just him taking charge after the "training" had been completed. 

So far the hunts themselves were what Alastair would call "Run-of the-mill" which Crowley figured meant that they were simple, shoot to kill sort of hunts. He shuddered at the thought of coming across a hunt that Alastair didn't classify as run-of-the-mill. Much to his luck, it had never gotten down to that point, and the young hunter couldn't have been more grateful, even to the day he had finally left. Which didn't happen nearly as quickly as he would have hoped.

Years went by that he was working with Alastair. He knew his techniques, his aliases, the sorts that he hunts and the battles that he faced, and most of all, he understood why the other hunters were weary of him.

As far as Crowley could see, Alastair was the only hunter he had come across, that enjoyed torturing the creatures he came across.

Not even for just interrogation sometimes, he just..- he just _did_ it. Said that they deserved no more than what they give, and although Crowley never quite understood this saying, he understood what came after it, and he tried to be as far away from the scene as possible. Yeah, he's killed all sorts of creatures, seen the terrible sights that come along with it, but he never got joy out of watching something suffer. It just didn't seem right to him.

It was the only time's in his life that he had ever had the courage to tell Alastair "no.".

Alastair, to some extent, wouldn't complain. He enjoyed his handywork, called it an art. Crowley could recall most of the hunter's tangents about how his blade was his brush, and the creatures he put on a slab were his canvas. He would tell him that's why he often worked alone, that others didn't quite understand his method, and he would claim that Crowley was one of the very few who appreciated his technique.

Crowley would ask why him.

Alastair would only reply with a smile.

Crowley would later find out, when his tailbone was being pressed roughly against the edge of a table, and those long fingers knotting themselves in his short ruffled hair and thin lips ghosting over his own. Later find out that it was just him the whole time, the little son of a witch who didn't cower away from him when they first met, didn't shy away from an argument nor some debate. And how he never left, when Alastair gave him free range hunting, how he always came back in the end. With the hunting, monsters, and torturing on his shoulders, he still came back to him.

He had been mumbling something to him, and to this day Crowley can't remember what it was, but he can remember reaching out to hook his fingers into the others belt loops. He can remember the brush of his lips and the ghost of his breath, and the gentle way he handled him. Much like everything else he had ever done, he was gentle and slow, and very very deliberate. And for a long time, Crowley became his canvas, without all the rusted tools and sharp knives as his brush and marker this time around.

But his hands became his fine-point pen, his nails the ink as he marked every inch of him. His mouth the paint, running it along every part of him, using every ounce of him to use every ounce of the other.

Crowley can remember many times where they'd lay there, spent and rung out, the taller hunter nestled between his legs. Can remember how it felt when the others breath was panted and shallow against his neck, fingers rubbing circles against his bruised hips and how the other would hum some odd little tune. Fingers brushing over scars and bruises that he had caused, and would call him his personal masterpiece.

Crowley never could remember why he ever did all that in the first place; maybe he was lonely, maybe he had some odd fixation with the man that he didn't know how to sate, maybe he even cared for the crazy bastard at some point. He didn't know, couldn't remember, and tried not to.

He often forgot that Alastair couldn't be something steady nor reliable. He was manipulative, unsafe. Alastair embodied danger, and Crowley wasn't sure how he survived so long working by his side without the man ever turning the blade on him. Alastair had claimed that Crowley fascinated him, excited him. He liked the push and shove that Crowley gave back to him, liked the fight in him, and he loved bringing out the worst in him.

And that was maybe why Crowley finally left.

It got too crazy, too much. Alastair was insane, there was no doubt about it, but he was also a great hunter, clever, smart, and strongly willed, but overall he was obsessive. Deranged and damaged beyond Crowley's comprehension, and it was becoming too much. Alastair grew more on edge, spent longer working on his "Masterpieces", hours upon hours, and eventually, during one of his trials, Crowley finally built up the courage to run.

He had packed up his things forever ago, and snagged the keys out of Alastair's bag before rushing as quietly as he could, out of the hotel room.

The feeling was exhilarating, hands on the wheel's of Alastair's truck he was shooting down the high way at nearly a hundred mile's per hour. Adrenaline and fear were settled in the back of his mind, and he couldn't help but snap his eyes over to the side mirrors just to make sure he wasn't being followed.

He changed out car's halfway through, and changed them out again a quarter of a mile towards the UK. There were maybe thousands of miles between the two of them, and Crowley had so carelessly used one of Alastair's credit cards to book a flight to America. Just like he had intended to do several years ago.

The young hunter wanted nothing more than to get back to his old life, back to worrying about school and gaining a higher education. But he knew it was too late for that now. Creatures knew his face, his name, he couldn't go back to the way things were supposed to be, being the quiet son of a witch; he wasn't that anymore. Hunting changes people, changes aspirations, and when he got to America, he knew he wouldn't be able to change careers.

Demon's know him by first name. There is no backing out now, because Alastair ruined that chance for him.

His chance for a life was now shattered, so he did the only thing he could do once he stepped onto American soil. He picked up the broken pieces and got to work.

He found himself a ride out of Ohio, where he had initially ended up. Hot wiring a car or two and struggling to get used to how backwards they were, driving on the passenger side and all. He met a few hunters along the way, stumbling upon a roadhouse up in Nebraska owned by a pair of lovely hunters. Meg, Ruby, and their father- the both of them were just as hardheaded as he'd imagine other hunters would be, but it's the first time he's come across any that were separate from the group he had traveled in.

Meg was all smoke and mirrors, and she was quick with her words. Her and Crowley bonded almost instantly over a few backhanded comments, and soon a full conversation. Ruby was a bit more hesitant around him, dancing around him and chewing on her words. She reminded Crowley of leopard, and he couldn't quite explain why that was. Perhaps it was because she looked so jumpy whenever he spoke to her, like she was getting ready to pounce at all times.

They were young, of course. There parent owned the Roadhouse, and the two of them were perhaps six or seven years younger than himself, Meg had to only be seventeen years old, and Ruby seemed just a bit younger than that. Meg had been chatting with him about this and that, mostly about American culture, trying to do what she can that may help him on his way, and so he didn't make some sort of ridiculous mistake, when her father had come out.

He was a simple looking man that went by the name Azazel. He had shot Crowley a curious look when he approached, but Crowley only gave a smile in return, a rather guilty one at that, but a smile none the less. Azazel asked him a few questions, some that were standard, and the hunter can remember not being completely sure what to say half the time; he can recall him looking a bit frustrated, at least until Crowley admitted that Alastair always did all the two-bit interrogation work when he was hunting up in Europe and Russia.

He can remember the look of horrified surprise on his face before asking whether or not the bastard was with him, to which Crowley shook his head.

"I ran away," he had admitted, "I was stuck with him for years, but I got away."

Azazel, the poor soul, breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, calling to Ruby to grab out some of the stronger liquor he keeps in the back.

"Did you know him?" Crowley had asked once the girl returned, and Meg pulled out two glasses for them, sliding one over to Crowley.

Azazel nodded, "Course I did," his mutter sounded relieved and disappointed simultaneously, and it was a wonder how he did that, "Everybody know's Al, he uhm," he poured the drink into his glass, snagging Crowley's to do the same before sliding it back, "he..- he got around."

Crowley to this very day, never really knew what he meant by that, 'getting around' or so to speak. There were endless possibilities, most of which he knew, he had traveled with him for years, but even then he couldn't pinpoint his exact meaning.

They talked for a bit like that, and soon the sky began to darken and Azazel offered him a place in the back where he could stay for the night. Crowley left early that morning, leaving a couple of dollars on the mattress with a note that said ' _thank's for the drink_ ', leaving his name and number as well, just in case.

He got a text from Meg a few hours on the road.

Crowley, for the next few months, was in a sort of limbo of motel to motel until he was able to finally put a down payment on a little run down house up on Sioux Falls. The yard was rather large, and it was away from everything; miles from the nearest house, and about a half-hour from the nearest town. It was perfect, and secluded, and perhaps a bit too big for what he'll be needing it for, but it was his none the less.

Fixing it up hadn't been as hard as he would have imagined, boarding up a few rooms in the back he didn't have any use for, after, of course, he set up a few good wards in there. The main floor had a decent kitchen, a big living room, and a hallway that lead towards the stairwell. There were at least six rooms up there, and two washrooms, one of which he didn't have use for, and five rooms he didn't have much use for either.

Over the months he set up a library in the main room, and the basement became a rather amplified supply closet. He found he had use for at least a few of the rooms upstairs, besides the one he was sleeping in; he made up two of them to be guest rooms, and another one towards the back, which had to be unboarded, became a room where he set up the rest of his books, where the clutter began to grow too much.

The guest rooms, he had originally thought, weren't going to be used very often, but he couldn't have been more wrong.

Azazel and the girls often came up when they were working on hunts in town, often stayed the night instead of wasting money on a hotel room. He even met a few hunters that Azazel had sent his way to look after for a few nights, met a few interesting people that way.

Abaddon had stayed a few times with a friend of her's, Redd. An interesting bunch, but Abaddon always rubbed him the wrong way, but he certainly wasn't someone to deny help when needed. Then there was Jeffery, who's a bit of an oddball, but certainly a good conversationalist; Ellsworth didn't talk much, and was always alone when he came to stay the nights. He was ruggish, and looked like a truck driver, but most hunters did so he didn't really comment too much about it. He had multiple phones on his person, and often stood as an FBI agent, which Crowley couldn't help but admire.

He's helped Crowley out on a few cases before by posing as a federal agent, so the hunter felt a bit indebted to him.

Then there was Samhain, Brady, Channing, Christian Campbell, Dr. Cindy McClellan; who works a side job up in Mercy Hospital when she's not hunting, which Crowley very much admired about her. Then there was Duane, Tanner, Father Gil, Jackson, Jason, Nora, Nurse Palomino; who was a dear and often brought treats along with her when she visited. Rosco, Viggo, and a few others.

His home became widely known by hunters, and often a safe haven for them to drop by when passing. Crowley was able to build up connections here, gained numbers and books from these people, and for once he felt as if he was actually making something of himself. However, even with the many hunters that come, he was more often than not alone. These visits are few and far between, even with his own personal hunts that he travels out with.

Crowley mostly ever hunted by himself, but there was this large gaping case up in Colorado that Azazel had picked him up on and took him to. Said that it looked like his kind of case, and Crowley didn't mind tagging along. It was a whole nest of demons, which, at the time, wasn't nearly as common as it was currently, so hunters weren't really stocked nor prepared to take them on individually.

It was hard taking on a single demon by oneself, let alone a whole warehouse full of them.

Azazel left his daughters home for this bit, too dangerous, he said, and had reassured Crowley that they have someplace to go if they lose him, so he wasn't too worried about it. They had another hunter working along with them, and this was the first Crowley had seen or heard of him.

John Winchester.

He didn't talk much at first, kept to himself for the most part, but he was a good hunter, from what Azazel had told him. Said that he was looking for some "yellow eye'd demon,"-- Crowley recognized a vengeance hunt when he saw one, which wasn't as often as one might think. But John..- he had that crazed, hardened look in his eye, one that Crowley recognized in old hunters, but John was of a newer breed, started only a couple years back. He was wholefully experienced, but he was terribly reckless.

John ignored him for the most part of the hunt, at least until Crowley had knocked a few demon's off of his back during the _finale_ of the fight. It was only after it all was over that he started talking to him, and that's how Crowley found out he had two kids at home.

Sam and Dean Winchester, two bright wee things that the man spoke very fondly about. Said that Dean was showing a lot of interest in sports, and wee Sammy was getting ready to start kindergarten soon. John was a good man, and he was trying to do right by his boys, but when Crowley had asked where they were now, he had said he left them with some woman staying at the motel he was in; Crowley didn't say it aloud, but the wholeness of his careless demeanor concerning his children certainly rubbed him the wrong way.

He was careless, reckless, a mess. He was trying, but he was going to hurt those boys, and himself in the long run. Crowley did what he could, and offered his place up for whenever he was in the neighbourhood, but once they parted, he never actually expected for him to drop on by.

Much to his surprise, he heard a knock on his door around two something in the morning, a few days after the initial meeting, only to find John Winchester standing there; with an arm full of rugrat and a six year old on his leg. John had the decency to look a little embarrassed and even asked if he could keep the boys here for a few nights. Crowley welcomed them inside with open arms, because _oh dear_ those boys looked a bit worn for wear, and John didn't look much better.

Crowley was only ever able to get him to stay a few minutes to relax a moment and drink some coffee before he ran out the door. Crowley can remember standing there for a long time, staring at the doorway he had rushed so quickly out of; Crowley could see the nerves jumping off of the mans body when he left, thanking him before heading out. He only moved when he felt a soft hand touch his leg, looking down to see little Sammy looking up at him curiously with his large round eyes.

It went on like this for years.

Crowley spent more time with those boys than he did away from them, and had grown to know John Winchester a bit better as time flew by. Sometimes Meg would come over, all grown up and tease a seven year old Sam about his long mop of hair, or an 11 year old Dean on how his voice was cracking. Sometimes Crowley would wake up and find Sam in his bed with him, even when the boys hadn't even been in the house an hour before. He had always made a few extra portions of food just in case if they were going to show up; all the little things. The guest rooms soon became _their_ rooms, and Crowley had to unboard the last two rooms in his house and make those the guest bedrooms for straggling hunters needing a place to stay when the boys were over.

Here, they had toys and books to read in their rooms. They had pictures on their walls, and clothes in their drawers, and a made bed for whenever they'd stop by. Sam used to draw him pictures, in crayons that the hunter had bought him or pencils he'd find lying about, and he would draw Crowley with him and his older brother; and Crowley would sit with him and tell him all the little things he liked about it, and then he'd put them on his fridge, just to let Sam know he was proud of him.

The boys were usually always over during the holidays; birthdays they were typically with John, but a week or so later, they'd be back at Crowley's where he bought them something for surviving just another year. On Christmas's Crowley would make sure they had presents, and something to look forward to; on Thanksgiving, he would teach them both how to prepare turkey and ham, getting honey everywhere and flower in their hair, but they never seemed to mind. One year, they had been over on father's day, which Crowley hadn't realized, and woke up that morning to the smell of burnt toast that Sammy had tried to make for him, with a homemade card they both made together.

It was certainly one of his better memories. The boys ended up staying at his house longer, and a few weeks at a time turned into months on a few occasions, and Crowley can remembering thinking that the bastard had died.

Crowley quickly realized that John was on a suicide mission, and the longer he would be gone, the surer he would be that he was killed, only to be proven wrong when he'd come to retrieve his boys a week or two later.

Dean began following in his father's footsteps, wanting to come along in hunts, already fluent in the business of taking apart and putting together guns; he does it so well that he could even show Crowley, a well developed hunter, a few tricks here and there. Sam, on the other hand, didn't seem nearly as enthusiastic over the whole thing. He was excelling academically, and would often sit across from Crowley's desk, which was set up in his living room, and talk with him for hours upon hours over the neat little things he's found in one of Crowley's old books.

They were certainly developing their own little personalities.

And Sam was actually the reason that Crowley had Growley in the first place.

Found the frightened little puppy in his backyard where the poor thing had stumbled onto his land; Sam, being the gentle soul that he was, had taken some food from inside and lured the little creature up to him, getting the little thing to trust him before taking the mud covered mutt inside. Crowley wasn't sure what to make of the thing when he brought it inside, but he wasn't about to tell a child "no" and he certainly wasn't going to leave the pup outside to die.

They had sat in a circle of three around the puppy, letting it get used to them as they tried to figure out the breed of it, and eventually, looking for names. Dean had a lot that he rather liked, most of which were names of band members from old 70's to 80's rock, but Sam kept shooting them down. Sam had a few names he liked, and eventually, had muttered out "Growley" which prompted for a few good laughs. The name ended up sticking, much to Crowley distress, but the boys liked it, and he wasn't going to argue.

Eventually, Crowley left Dean in charge so he could go get some food for the pup, asking them to bathe the puppy while he's gone. He was gone about half an hour, but the place was heavily warded, so overall he wasn't too worried about anything happening. He couldn't have been more wrong.

When he returned, where was a truck sitting in his yard, a vaguely familiar one that he couldn't quite put his finger on. That is, until, he finally made his way inside.

The boys were standing in the kitchen, looking cornered and staring at something standing in his living room. Dean was standing protectively in front of Sam, who was holding a wet shaking puppy in his arms. Sam looked up at Crowley when he first entered, his eyes pleading and causing the hunter to drop the food onto the floor and his keys onto the counter. He reached into a drawer, that was out of the line of sight of whatever was standing in his living room, staring at the children, pulling out a six-shooter revolver and softly checking for bullets.

Drawing it up he quickly turned the corner, pointing it at the creature in his living room. Much to his horror, it wasn't even a creature.

A tall man stood there, grinning at the two boys with his lips upturned as if someone placed two fingers against his cheeks and drew them up. His hair was beginning to grey on the strands, and on the scruff on his face; his arms were folded against his back and his light blue collared shirt was tucked in with the sleeves rolled up.

"Alastair," he breathed in his shock, his brows raising; the shock of seeing him again after all these years never subsided, and the sudden fear he felt in the pit of his stomach of what might have happened to the boys if he hadn't gotten here sooner. Dean can look after himself well, but Alastair was on a whole different level.

"Ah," his voice was drawled pleasantly, "there you are Crowley," he had said with such a gentle recognition, his voice soft and slow like all those years ago, but something seemed different about him; something seemed broken. "It's been a long time, hasn't it little moth?" _Little moth_ , it's been _years_ since he's heard that.

"Yes," he replied, keeping the weapon steady, "It has."

"Did you miss me?" Alastair grinned, letting his eyes drag over the hunters face and across his body, "My, have you grown."

"And you've aged."

"Like a fine wine, as I like to put it," he gave as reply, glancing over to the children, "and who are these little..-?"

"Nobody who'll concern you," Crowley snapped, "leave them out of this."

Alastair tsked, "are they yours?"

"What's it to you?"

"I've been playin' cat'n mouse with you for _years_ , Fergus," he hummed, and Crowley could hear the soft confused mutter of the name from behind, "left me all alone. Stranded, back in Ballybrack, and yet you won't even tell me their names?"

"They don't concern you," Crowley repeated, "what are you here for?"

Alastair licked his lips, running his tongue along his lower, watching as Crowley's eyes followed the trail before grinning, "you."

There was a muffle thud coming from outside, before feet hitting gravel rushing up to the door, "-Crowley are the boy's packed up ye-" came a voice from the ajar doorway, freezing very suddenly. Crowley didn't have to look over to know who it was, and didn't say a word when the man stood next to him, gun ready in hand.

"John," Crowley spoke softly, "get out of here, and take the kids."

"Who the hell is this guy?"

"John, listen to me, just get out of here." The hunter hissed at him, and the Winchester squinted his eyes at him, his brows furrowed before nodding, dropping his weapon into his holster and snagging his kids up. Sam shouted after Crowley, but Crowley didn't take his eyes off of the tall hunter standing in front of him.

"Sam, drop the fucking dog," he heard John hiss out. Sam made a distraught sound, trying to protest, but Crowley intervened.

"Sam, it's okay. I'll look after him," he said, turning his eyes just a moment to look at the lad, "he'll still be here when you get back, okay?" Little did he know he wouldn't be seeing those boys for a long time after that incident, at least not until they were already all grown up. Sam nodded to him before John ushered them out as quickly as he could, the door slamming behind them on their way out.

Crowley turned his attention back on Alastair, who was only smirking at him. Shifting onto one leg, he suddenly looked a bit too causal for someone standing under gunpoint.

"Why don't you put that heavy thing down, and we catch up after all this time?"

"And why would I do that?" Crowley snapped, "I left you, I ran away, stole your truck I..- I put this gun down, and you aim for my neck."

Alastair was still grinning, and Crowley had watched as his shoulders relaxed, and there he was, tsking, once again. "Really, Crowley? You do realize, that if I wanted you dead, you would have been dead a long time ago."

"Alright, maybe not dead," he swallowed, "but hurt, or worse. You seem to forget I worked with you for years, and nothing ever came out of double crossing you."

"Double crossing me?" Alastair hummed in his amusement, "Funny thing, you are, aren't you? You think you double crossed me?" Crowley quirked a brow at him, "All you did was burst out of your little cocoon and fly away, little moth. You were under no obligation to stay, and when you were ready, you left the nest. And, as a.." he paused, spreading out his hand and pressing it against his chest, over his heart, he inclined his head, "-a _proud_ mother of what you've accomplished. I've finally come down to visit."

"You've known where I've been this whole time," he breathed, the realization striking him. He almost didn't notice Alastair softly approaching, allowing his hand to lower and reach for the gun in his hand.

"I never lost sight of my little son of a witch," he breathed, "not even for a moment," his hand touched the barrel of the gun, but Crowley didn't pull the trigger. "After all," Crowley's grip on the weapon loosened while Alastair pulled it out of his grasp, setting down onto the table top behind him. "You looked just far too _precious_ when I was all finished with you," he drawled out in that smooth tone of him, "I couldn't give that up, just waited long enough until you forgot just how.. _good_ \- I can make you feel."

Crowley's breath hitched, out of fear, panic, and maybe a little something else when he was backed up against his kitchen table. Now, didn't this seem terribly familiar.

What happened next was more of a dance than anything else; and certainly not one that Crowley was proud of.

Feeling that undying need of closeness, touch. Hunting had stripped those luxuries away from him, beaten them out of him and strayed him along the way. It wasn't something he ever divulged in, for the soul reason that he starves for it.

For touch, affection.

It felt strange to receive it, and when he does, he had a hard time pushing it away.

Especially because Alastair _knew_ he starved for it, and _knew_ all these little tricks he could so easily pull to have the hunter melt into complete puddy under his grip. Knew what to say, where to touch, how to hold; was utterly aware of every weakness in him and how to push every button he had. The table against his back and how hard to move and just how roughly he could scrape his nails against his back and sides. He knew just how roughly he liked the attention, and how much he liked the gentleness.

Alastair never cared much for all the stops, but knew he wouldn't get what he wanted otherwise. Often times calling Crowley a "pampered little princess" when he was through, even though the deep scratches along his sides, the dark bruises on his hips and the limp in his step would clearly say otherwise.

When lips would mash and words would pass and clothes were torn and the two of them became a body mass of breathless swears and crushing hips; flushed skin, and kiss bitten lips, and angry red marks beginning to show on pale bodies.

If felt like a fight sometimes, otherwise it was a dance. It depended, of course, of the mood of it all, or the situation, or perhaps why they had fallen into this again. Even after all these years, and even after he had run away, he still fell into this battle with him that he felt trapped in-- encased. But the familiarity of it all made him fell safe, even when it clearly was far from it.

It was unhealthy, all of it. His whole damn lifestyle was so goddamn backwards he couldn't tell the difference anymore, couldn't find it in him to care to.

He risked his life on the daily biases to save strangers who never thank him. He excorcizes demon's, lies, steals, and cheat's his way through life using fake credit cards, and forged social securities. He saves lives, and in the process had successfully ruined his own, and he know's he's stuck living this two-bit existence, and maybe that's as good a reason as any for why he keeps allowing Alastair to do these things to him.

Alastair became a habit, and the thing with hunters, is that it's hard to jump out of a habit once it becomes one of those few things that bring comfort; regret be damned.

Even now, although he's been able to avoid confrontation with the man for about a few months now, it always eventually comes running up from behind him towards the very end. It's always just that, unavoidable.

Alastair was unavoidable, much like death. However, not everyone's going to have the erm.. _pleasure_ of acquainting Alastair first hand.

And Crowley was bothered to say that many people were going to shake Death's hand personally, very soon.

Which brings him back to the now.

Sam and Dean were following a lead closer towards the first demon, Lilith, who had sent Dean's poor soul down to hell a few months back. All of it had gotten a bit out of hand, that with the breaking of the first seal, and for heavens sake, _angels_ now. Dean had one following him around like a kicked puppy, a lost looking thing in a dirty trench coat that went by the name Castiel.

Claimed he pulled him out of hell, and at first, he wouldn't believe it.

One would think that they were here to help, protect the human race or some other rubbish, but they were just as bad as demon's were-- worse, actually, because for one, they're harder to kill, and two, they're douche bags in fine pressed suits and nothing's worse than a douche bag in a nice suit. Especially one's after some Ineffable Divine Plan to release Satan from his hellish prison in the pits of hell, so him and his brother can throw a tantrum on earth.

Splendid.

Crowley spun the cylinder of the Colt, chewing the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

There was a lot going on right now, and sitting and reminiscing over things long since passed wasn't going to stop Lucifer from busting out of the cage, nor was it going to prevent them from wearing the boys to prom.

Not to mention someone's been tracking him, or, more specifically, the neat little device in his grasp. Crowley hummed to himself dropping his legs off of his desk and pushing himself to his feet. Juliet upturned her head slightly, but otherwise didn't react as he began trudging down into his basement.

It was only a matter of time before, whomever, was going to find him. Might as well be prepared.

He closed the basement door behind himself, stepping down the long staircase into the cellar, where walls filled with shelves and items for hunts rested and laid. Crowley snagged some salt on his way, grabbing one of his blessed blades off of one of his racks and placed it in his pocket, huffing to himself before finally trudging back upstairs.

He snagged his keys off of the counter, calling to his dogs that he'd be right back before taking his leave.

The drive down to storage wasn't very long, but 30 minutes can feel like an eternity, especially when you're aware that you're on someone's black list.

It wasn't the first time he's been hunted down, put perhaps it was the first time they were searching for something other than his head. He accelerated in speed just slightly, biting on his lower lip out of nervous habit until he finally arrived at the warehouse. Crowley was quick to find a good area where he could hide his car out of sight, making quick work to shut off the vehicle, gather his supplies, and jog up towards the entrance.

The company that used to own these large warehouses, had gone out of business back in 2002, and the city never got around to tearing them down. There wasn't any money out in these parts, and the location was less than ideal; never bothered to deal with the large buildings, and as far as Crowley can tell, they've simply been left to rot.

Which has caused a few problems in the past, with demon nests and the like, but they've been dealt with a few times, and now the building was as clear as far as he could see.

The whole place was beyond freezing however, and Crowley just made to tug on his jacket a bit to keep him from the cold. It didn't work all that well, but after a while, walking from one side of the warehouse to the next, he barely even noticed the cold; setting the salt around the doors before heading towards the center. With a heavy sigh, he began working on the Devil's Trap, mumbling to himself as he tried to portion it all as evenly as he could.

He's used to making them, but he much preferred paint to salt. Paint wasn't as easy to break or blow away. However, Crowley had used up the last bit of his paint on the last case he and the Boys were on-- messy business over in Ohio, but they were able to clear it up before it got too out of hand.

His bag was nearly empty, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to finish the trap, but he was lucky with the last sigil-- had just enough, it seemed. He was only away for a moment, going to toss out the bag before just as promptly returning, moving to stand in front of the Devil's Trap, and do what he figured the other was expecting.

He waited.

Crowley waited for a good while, eventually pulling out the colt to examine it. Thumbs brushing over the markings, and fingers wrapping around the base; it was a beauty, especially for a gun as old as it was. Well developed and still working strong, even though the barrel was thinning, and the base was certainly beginning to wear down-- most likely from the frequent use it's been getting recently. Crowley wished he had a better place to hide the thing, rather than in his harsh desk drawer, but that's the safest place he know's for it to be.

With a sigh he lowered his arm to hand by his side, holding the colt loosely.

It didn't take much longer for the demon to appear.

He was a little surprised by the suave appearance; never really knew demon's to get all dressed up. His suit was finely pressed, with his nice sport's jacket unbuttoned. He wore a deep maroon button up underneath a charming vest; Crowley didn't miss the chain hanging from his pocket, and rightfully assumed he owned a pocket watch.

How charming.

He looked somewhat like a Mark Twain, or perhaps a Vincent Price or even a good mixture of the two.

The demon quirked a brow, his lips parting as a vaguely surprised "Ah," passed through. He blinked up at the hunter, looking rather unaffected as he placed his hands gingerly into his pant pockets, "Seem's I've been expected."

He had a gentle voice; not in the way that Alastair's was gentle, not in that quiet before a storm sort of way. It was gentle the way the soft rock of a boat was gentle, placing a hand against the surface of still water was gentle.

Crowley furrowed his own brows, placing his free hand into the pocket of his jacket, shifting to one foot.

"What?" he smirked almost tauntingly, lifting the gun to head level to make sure the demon got a good look of it, "Given that you've been scouring the mortal realm for this old relic," that extra bit had actually been tipped to him; Meg did wonders when she knew Crowley was involved. His eyes stayed steady on the gun, but he could feel the others eyes staring at him, but he didn't feel any animosity directed towards him; to be completely honest, this bloke didn't seem all that malicious.

"Well," he continued, "It was just a matter of time before you found me," Crowley leveled the gun, pointing the barrel forward, "So what need does a demon have for a gun that kills your own kind?" With a swipe of his thumb, he cocked the barrel, extending his arm and pointing the weapon at the creature, which still looked, utterly unfazed. Crowley didn't let it throw him off, "-other than to take yet another weapon out of the hands of us _'puny'_ humans." Crowley sneered, "I do _hope_ you don't expect me to just hand it over out of the.. _goodness_ of my heart and your good looks."

The demon seemed to perk up at that, raising his hands smoothly, almost as gently as his words were; careful and steady and it was rather off-putting to see in something as deranged as a demon. There was a careful, if not amused smile on his lips, but it was in no way taunting as it was sincere.

"Not at all," he said in something that was akin to reassuring, which again, was rather odd. "Thing is, I don't want the gun- My charges do. Rumors are floating about that say this piece of hardward's capable of killing _Lucifer_ ," Crowley kept the gun leveled at his head, but he could feel his guard dropping, ever so slightly, "Y'know," he continued, "what with the on coming Apocalypse and all-"

Crowley squinted at him, drawing back the colt, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. The demon inclined his head, wearing that smirk from before, "Guessing a smart boy like you have already seen the signs-" he left the comment opened ended.

Crowley breathed out a soft _huh_ , "Interesting," he murmured, shifting on his opposite leg, "A demon that wants the Devil dead- _and_ prevent the end of the word. What a novel concept," he chuckled, spinning the gun in his hands. He chewed the inside of his cheek, pausing before he sighed, "I'll likely regret this in the morning, but-" he extended his arm, the handle of the colt facing the demon's direction, rather than the barrel itself, "here."

Much to his horror, the demon snapped his hand forward and grabbed his wrist instead and tugged him forward with a strong pull. Crowley stumbled forward, and before the action had even registered to his brain, their were a pair of warm, soft lips against his own; the scratch of a beard along his cheek and a strong hand around his wrist. His thoughts went blank, even when they pulled apart; his eyes were wide and he damn well knew it, his dumbstruck expression was not exactly one he wanted the enemy to see, and when he muttered a soft " _Thank you_ ," and disappeared, it only took a moment to come back to himself.

His knife was in hand when he snagged his arm almost violently away from where it was held in the air, "-how..?" promptly gazing downward to see his foot slid into the salt-made Devil's trap. Confusion turned to anger within seconds, cursing loudly at himself.

"Played by a goddamn demon!" he shouted, "God, I fucking _hate_ demons, the whole lot of them-!" he kicked the salt in his frustration. He wasn't done with him yet, he still didn't get to ask why this was all happening, but the bastard left before he even got the chance.

Crowley cursed under his breath profusely, tugging his jacket sleeves in his frustration as he left in a huff. Muttering to himself for being so stupid, and reckless, and clumsy. If he had only stood a few inches back.. _a few inches_ he might still have the bastard for questioning.

He didn't even get a name.

Crowley felt oddly disappointed on the drive home, and once he arrived back, dropping his keys onto the counter, he was quick to spot another set resting there. He recognized them almost instantly and he suddenly regretted coming home.

"What's with the face?" Came a languid comment from his kitchen doorway. Crowley upturned his head to see the head hunter's torturer, as what most have been keen to calling him now, leaning with his arms crossed against his frame. Alastair was smirking down at him, in a motherly sort of way that always made his skin crawl but never really made him react.

"Off day," he settled to saying. Alastair didn't know he had the colt, and he certainly planned to keep it that way; the less he knew, the better off he was. Especially considering he just gave the damn thing to the one species they're trying everything in their power to kill and contain. The tall hunter knew he wasn't saying everything, but didn't press, didn't care much too because they both knew he didn't care that much to begin with. Instead, he simply tsked, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"M'sorry to hear that, Crowle's," he murmured with indolence, pushing himself off of the wooden frame and sauntering forward. Crowley braced himself, even though he knew Alastair isn't the type to strike a person, especially himself, but he always did, because Alastair was unpredictable. Simple as that. Can't trust him worth a dime, but he did on some level, and that's always why they fell into this metronomic pattern. Steady, but infrequent, and he's never once been certain how he felt about the whole thing.

Well, perhaps that was a lie. He hated it, but it was familiar and he couldn't get enough of familiar, especially in this life.

Alastair lifted his hands and intertwined his fingers through the hunters hair, cradling his head and upturning it slightly. His lips were smooth when they pressed against his forehead, the slight scratch of his unshaven scruff along his chin and jaw, scraping against his skin and making the places it's brushed feel tingly.

Crowley felt stiff against him, but Alastair didn't mind, never did. Instead, he drew his lips downward and pressed against the shorter hunters mouth; for many reasons, unknown to the hunter, it didn't seem right. Well, it was obviously not right, simply because it was Alastair, but there was something else that made his skin squirm feeling his lips pressed against his mouth like that.

He didn't quite fit anymore, now did he?

His lips were familiar, however, always familiar. And so were those hands, like spiders, clutching with a vise grip through his hair before dragging down to his shoulders and then down his arms, trailing along until they rested against his sides. His movements were quick and snappy, pulling Crowley's jacket off of his shoulders and dropping it carelessly to the floor. Hands sliding over his sides and reaching belt-laced hips, brushing upward to slip under his worn down T-shirt and to touch round warm skin underneath.

His hands felt cold against him, sharp and jagged, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they trailed along from his love-handles and around towards the front-

Alastair pulled away slightly, a lopsided grin spread out on his lips; Crowley was thrown at first, confused as to why they stopped until he saw the taller man reach around to his back pocket, and produced a phone which Crowley just realized was vibrating.

With a puff of air, Crowley was able to catch himself and readjust before making a point to slip away while Alastair answered the phone. He wasn't quite sure if he was disappointed or relieved, and settled on figuring that he was both and tried not to deny the fact that his emotions were always just a bit out of touch. Yelping, as he stepped away, when a hand slapped his rear sharply, receiving a jagged hushed chuckle from the hunter when he glared at him.

"Al speaking," he greeted as he went to place the phone by his ear, watching as Crowley sauntered into his living room, keeping his eyes steady with the man's hand as he rubbed the spot on his backside that Alastair had struck.

The shorter hunter made to leave the room when he heard the sudden drop in the other hunters voice; the sort of hunting business he didn't care much for, and as Crowley made his trudge upstairs, he could hear the front door slam. Crowley sighed, muttering to himself once he landed on the top step, and began sauntering down the hall. Juliet was lying against one of the doors down the way, and the hall closet was slightly ajar, and Crowley didn't even bothering peeking in to know who was sleeping in there.

The week slid on past and then another to follow. The hunter hadn't heard much word from the boys until the following month, and even then they were vague and Sam had opted to head over and work out what to do with the last few seals breaking away.

It was a late, bitter cold afternoon when they arrived, and they were both in a terrible sorry state. Dean pulled Crowley into a tight hug on greeting, smile wide regardless of how worn down he looked, and once he let go Sam took his place, wrapping his moose like arms around him before pulling away.

It was only later that night, once dinner was finished and the dishes were clean, that they began talking about what they needed to do about Lilith. Hours of running through books he's read maybe a hundred times each, throwing out idea's and making a few calls seemed fruitless but necessary; there had to be something to prevent the end of the world, and Crowley's mind kept thinking back to that charming demon he'd so carelessly given the colt to so many week's before.

He found himself thinking of him often, and cursed himself every time it happened.

It wasn't right, and he knew it. Perhaps he was just worried if whether or not giving him the colt was a good idea, but Crowley was having a hard time regretting his decision. Demon's were liars, thieves, murders; but that demon.. he seemed different. More genuine, and Crowley just tried not to think about his poorly made choices.

You can't trust a demon, simple as that. Hunting had it's grey area's but not as many as some would suspect.

Or at least he liked to think so.

Night came sooner than he had expected, and Dean made a point to let him know he was heading to bed. Sam was behind him a little while later, leaving Crowley to clean up the mess they had made. He didn't mind, never did; it never bothered him cleaning up after the two, especially after a rather stressful day. Cleaning didn't clam down his nerves, but it certainly got his mind off of whatever he was fretting over. It made him lose track of whose life is on the line, but more to where he left the trash can and why there was a spoon laying on his couch.

He picked up books and began stacking them back on their respective shelves, and almost didn't hear the soft flutter behind him as he bent down to grab a few tomes left scattered across the floor. Crowley's ear's perked when he heard the gentle creak of the floorboard, as if whomever was behind him was giving him incentive that they were there, but Crowley ignored them further, sliding his last two books in place deliberately. His hand was still resting against the binding of the novel, letting his fingers trail down the seam as he carefully shifted his body to look over at the intruder in his home.

Crowley, by all accounts, wasn't entirely certain what he expected. But it certainly wasn't that.

The demon from the warehouse was standing there, or, more or less leaning against the door-frame leading into his kitchen; hands shoved delicately into his pockets and head inclined towards the door. He looked much the same way he did those few week's ago, still sporting the same suit from what he can tell- that same smirk.

Crowley made a quick grab for his shotgun, but his hand only slid through air, and to his utter distress when he looked down, he found that it was no longer resting against the side of his bookshelf. He almost cursed himself for misplacing it, when he realized there was a goddamn demon in the room and that _he_ wasn't the one to misplace his weapon.

The demon was looking him up and down, seeming to be waiting for something but not wanting to be the one to say it.

Crowley stood up a bit straighter, setting his shoulders and jaw. "How the _bleeding hell_ did you get in my house?"

The demon's smirk seemed to widen, but it wasn't taunting. Nothing about him ever seemed to be taunting and it just wasn't right. The demon shook his head smoothly, shrugging in a way that seemed both nonchalant and obvious and Crowley wasn't quite certain how he pulled that off.

"You should probably check the wards out front," he opted instead, crossing his leg at the ankle, "there was a bitter storm a few weeks back, and the paint's only going to crack worse if you don't check on it."

Crowley huffed silently, squinting his eyes at the man. "Something tells me you're not only here to tell me about chipping paint."

"Down to business, then?" and with a small press of his elbow, he gently pushed away from the door-frame, shifting onto his feet. Crowley licked his lips, more out of nervous habit than necessity, eyes trained carefully on the creature.

"Might as well," he said before pausing, "and, pray I ask, what kind of business would you need with the likes of me, eh?"

And the demon smiled at that, like he _knew something_ that the other didn't, and it was _bothering him_ to _no_ end. He felt as if the demon were getting ready to roll out a board of chess and tell him that the game they were about to play was one that they were going to play against the universe; all for infinite stakes, as he withholds the rules and tells him to "do the _best_ he can".

"I couldn't help, but overhear," he says lightly, almost apologetically, as if a demon had it in them to apologize, "about the little predicament you and those poor boys are in." Crowley glared at him, "and I certainly couldn't help but know a thing or two about that tall one, that may be of interest to you."

"There's not a damn thing you could know about Sam that I wouldn't already," Crowley hissed, "is this all you're going to do? Spit out riddles?"

"Not at all," he shook his head, "I plan to tell you everything I know, free of charge."

"You're full of it," the hunter spat, "demon's don't work for free, and they certainly don't give out information for nothing."

The demon nodded, "you're right, but you didn't let me finish either," the hunter made to comment, but bit his tongue in retaliation. The demon waited a moment, as if waiting for the other to say something else before continuing on to speak, which he did so very slowly, dragging out in a way that his points couldn't be missed; it wasn't as if he was afraid that Crowley's "puny brain" could handle it, but more on the matter that he didn't want to miss a single detail.

"That tall boy of yours," he made a point not to say his name, even when Crowley knew he was well aware of it, "and the older one, are both, to keep it clean, vessels. Although I've heard some nice little names for those two," he glanced towards the stairs before back at the hunter, not making a move, "I'm certain that you're aware that they're important for this whole mess, and I'm not sure what the angels have told you, if they've told you anything at all-"

"They haven't," Crowley cut in, sounding a bit more chipped than he would have preferred, the demon didn't comment on it.

"Course not," he hummed, "they wouldn't, but they'd sure as hell like to drag you through the mudd to make sure you keep your pretty little head out of their affairs." The damned creature shifted onto his other foot, his tongue darting out from between his lips and swiping along his lower, "thought it polite to let you know they've got big plans for your sleeping kid's upstairs."

The hunter chewed on the inside of his cheek, "how do I know you're not lying to me? They're angels for fuck's sake, what would they gain from lying to a bunch of humans?"

"Apparently, a great deal," he replied, "and you don't have to believe me, course not- what do you gain from doing that? But, on the same note, what do I gain from lying?" the demon inclined his head, "if it sets your mind at ease, I personally think the truth hurts more. Lying doesn't get anyone very far, at least not from what I've seen."

Crowley had a few good words to put in, but the demon beat him to it.

"Anyways," he continued, "to put it simply, from what I've heard with the coming Apocalypse, his going to be brother against brother. The whole brawl, and earth will be the ring. Michael and Lucifer are going to go at each other's throats, but to do so on earth, they need vessels," he paused, "you see where I'm going with this?"

Crowley faltered slightly, shaking his head, "you mean to tell me they're going to use..-"

"Your little toy soldiers as battle gowns."

There was a long moment where Crowley couldn't find anything to say, tapping his finger against his hip as he thought. "But," he began, pausing once again as his words began failing him. He chewed on them, mashed them together to make a sentence but none was coming. He was able to wrap his head around the idea, blowing out a soft puff of breath from his lips, "But why them?" he demanded, "why Sam, why Dean? What do they have to do with _any_ of this nonsense, this isn't _their battle-_ "

"It's in the blood-line, I think," the demon responded, "From what I understand of angel mythology, it seems that certain blood-lines carry a dominate gene that can carry from the dawn of time up to now, and even further on." The demon made a soft sound, "Humans have been specifically bred for this purpose by the cupids, for specific angels. Not everyone's a carrier, but then again there are more humans than there are angels, so make of that what you will," he shrugged, "point is, the Winchester blood-line is a very specifically bred one, and from what I've heard, it's been made and kept on carefully for years and years, just to make sure your toy soldiers were born. Two brothers, turned against one another, in one final battle."

"The.. so, wait-" Crowley took a step back, brushing a weary hand through his hair, "you're telling me those boys have been rigged to..-" he couldn't even _say_ it.

The demon merely nodded, "It's all apart of the uhm.. the Ineffable Plan, or whatever they're calling it now. It's changed since the last time they tied jump starting the end of the world-"

"No _fuck_ that! You, heaven, hell, and your goddamn _ineffable plan_ -" Crowley snapped, "Those boy's aren't going to risk their _lives_ , goddamn it, their actual _lives_ , over some stupid _childish tantrum-!"_ The demon looked about ready to add in when Crowley seemed to realize what was going on, pausing forcefully before squinting his eyes almost angrily at the demon, "Wha-wait, why are you telling this to me?"

He couldn't see the gain, nor the purpose, but the demon began doing that infuriating thing where he _smiled_ , pulling his hands out from his finely-pressed suit pockets to fold them in front of him.

"Because I realized that, if Michael were to win, the human race would be exterminated, and so then would be the demon. And if Lucifer won? Let's just say the result is no better."

"What are you talking about? Lucifer created you, why would he destroy you?"

"If he see's humans as filthy bags of puss, imagine how he looks at us."

Crowley stopped, he hadn't even thought about that before. "Then why are your people working so desperately to get him out of the cage?"

"Demon's are idjits," he answered smoothly, rolling his bright blue eyes. Crowley hesitated, tilting his head slightly at the creature as if he was actually looking at for the first time.

"How many demon's realize this?"

"Including me? Just two."

"Who's the other?"

"A low-grade demon," he muttered almost bitterly, and that was the most emotion Crowley's heard in his voice thus far, "goes by the name of Garth. He's a sad excuse for a demon, but he's a hell of a lot smarter than I've given him credit for," he murmured, "he isn't much help, but he know's to run once judgement day comes."

Crowley was quiet a long moment, chewing on his words before sighing. "I don't think I ever quite caught your name, demon."

There was a soft chuckle in the back of the creatures throat before nodding slowly, "Name's Robert, but most just call me Bobby." he hummed, "and yourself?"

Crowley was taught, countless times, never to trust a demon. Alastair had told him time and time again to know your enemy more than they could ever possibly know you, among other ridiculous rules that he had no intention of dwelling on. That included letting them know that you had a family if you did, who you care about, where you sleep at night, and most importantly, your name.

But Crowley was Crowley, and rules more often times fell as a sort of guideline, and he couldn't explain why he didn't hesitate when he said, "Fergus, Fergus McLeod, but everyone call's me Crowley."

"Crowley," and when he said it, he said it like he was letting the name melt on his tongue, rather than judging it before spitting it out.

Maybe this was the time to start threatening the creature, start yelling and causing a fuss but he didn't. Instead he squinted at the thing, tilting his head carefully and ignoring Juliet as she sauntered her way past the two men to go lay by his desk. Crowley licked his lips, chewing on his lower before shaking his head.

"So, Bobby," he began, "I take it you want our help in stopping the upcoming end? Or did you just come by to let us know it was hopeless."

Bobby chuckled, "I intended to help," he paused, "for a price, that is."

"Should have seen that coming."

"Didn't you?" Crowley made no move to comment further as the demon lifted his arm to glance over the back of his hand, "Oh, come now Crowley, you know that nothing comes for free."

"And what could you possibly want from me?" The hunter growled, opting a smirk from the demon.

"Your soul," he hummed, dropping his hand back into his pockets, looking up at the hunter, "as always."

"In exchange for?"

"My help in keeping those boys of yours off the rack," Bobby gave, "for information, and my help too. You see," he stepped forward, almost idly as he glanced down at his shoes, sauntering a few short steps before stopping; Crowley held his ground, but that didn't keep his fingers from twitching, wishing more than anything that he had a weapon on his person. Having almost forgotten that this was a _demon_ he was talking to, and not just some man. "I've got a lot of connections," Bobby continued, "and I personally don't care for the complete annihilation of the human race, it's bad for business, or so to speak" he hummed, "and once the humans are gone, then we're next. If the end of the world happens, I've got everything to lose, and you? You've got two boys to look after, people to save, or whatever it is that you hunters tell yourself so you can sleep at night."

"And one little soul? In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't be much." Bobby upturned his eyes towards the staircase, a little ways behind the hunter, before dropping his gaze once again, "Not to mention, that those boys trust you. And honestly, if you had to give up something as... as _small_ as one little soul, to keep them alive, would you do it?"

"That's not even in question," Crowley snapped venomously, and Bobby nodded.

"So, do we have a deal?"

Crowley didn't miss a beat, "Where do I sign?"

"With your mouth, darlin'," the demon drawled. They both knew very well what a demon deal entails, but Crowley had a terrible time trying to force himself back into the position. He huffed out a weary breath, but nodded. Bobby didn't smirk at him this time around, nor did he smile condescendingly; he was very serious, rather neutral as he closed the distance between them with every step. They were close, now, almost uncomfortably so, but Crowley wasn't too worried about his soul; well, he was, but perhaps not as much as he should have been.

If all else fails, then he loses his life, his soul, and his boy's would still be dead; everything would have been for naught and he knew he ought not think of those kinds of outcomes. He wasn't ready to prepare himself for something so horrible.

An eternity in hell could mean a great deal of things, too, but he had more pressing matters to attend to first and foremost.

Bobby reach up a hand, brushing his fingers against the side of the hunters face before intertwining them through the ends of his hair, sliding them back until they were holding the back of the hunters head. The gesture was gentle, and his touch was careful and warm. He eyed the shorter man a few moments, his tongue flicking out against his lower lips, in something that reminded the hunter of a snake before he spoke.

"I don't do many offers like this, Crowley," he said, "but this is your only chance, is there anything else you want to sneak into this little deal before we finish? A better home, money, a partner?" he offered, but the hunter only shook his head.

"Just make sure that not a damn thing will happen to those boys."

"If you insist."

Then there was a soft pressure against the back of his head before two soft lips connected with his own. The light scratch of a beard against his jaw, and the soft brush of the other's nose against the side of his own; he felt a tug, somewhere deep in his abdomen- a slow burn and a sharp sting that evened out and began feeling like a subtle warmth flooding over him, and those lips on his mouth pressed just a little bit closer.

He wasn't sure when his own hands had betrayed him but he was completely certain that they _had_ once he realized he had a fist full of soft hair, and the thumping in his chest had nothing to do with the fact that some demon had his soul; but rather on how his lips had parted and a snake-like tongue had softly pushed through and Crowley could taste sulfur and mint, with a second hand joining the first, but rested against the base of his neck, holding him still.

The first kiss, Crowley remember's that they shared, wasn't nearly this long, nor was it this close or intimate. The first one was chaste, quick and shell shocking; this one had purpose, but whatever that purpose had been had flow away once he realized his heart was in his throat and his arms and legs had quivers running along them. And then Bobby did something with his tongue that made the hunter's knee's weak, and he was sure he wouldn't be able to support himself much longer.

It ended slowly, and parting was only just barely parting but more breaking away for breath. Crowley could feel every instinct in him telling him to pull away, and maybe save what may be left of his dignity, and he thought briefly to the rules of hunting that became Gospel to hunters; those same rules that had a funny way of wording guidelines as Crowley pressed back in, short of breath, but careless all the same.

Once it finally came to a stop, their lips parted with a soft wet sound, with Crowley as the first to pull away. His hands falling from the demon's hair which was now in a bit of a disarray. The hunters cheek's were flushed, with his ears burning and his breath heavy, but he had been able to slip out of the others grip, shrugging it off and keeping his eyes averted.

He didn't have to look at the creature to know that he looked rather smug, or so he thought. He missed the rather dazed expression, and the demon couldn't have been more thankful that the other could barely look up.

"Well," Bobby started in a way that clearly said he didn't have a rather long speech prepared, "I'll be back," and he took a step backwards as he was speaking, his voice wavering slightly before clearing his throat, composing himself. "Ciao."

Crowley didn't have to look up to know that he was gone, sucking in a deep breath as he moved to his desk, gripping the sides of the old oak to balance himself, letting his eyes flutter shut.

He was such a bleeding mess, and he damn well knew it. His heart was struggling to calm down, and the fluttering in his chest wouldn't cease for days after, and the weakness in his knee's-- well, honestly, he could never say it truly went away. With a shuddering breath, he pushed himself upright; Crowley can't remember a single time in his life feeling something as _intense_ as that.

With Alastair? It wasn't even..- it didn't..- _fuck_ he couldn't even think of a time where he's ever felt like that.

He wanted to say he was simply nervous, but it wasn't just nervousness and he knew it.

Crowley also wanted to just brush it off as how all people who sell their soul feel when giving it up. That had to be the reason, he was certain of it, but that lasting feeling of the other's lips on him didn't fade overtime. Not like it was with Alastair-- it didn't quite feel the same.

He reasoned to take a quick shower and crash for the night, and happened to just sleep in during the morning due to having a hard time finding rest a few hours before. Dean had to wake him up while Sam was downstairs making breakfast; and not once did Crowley mention what happened after they had went to bed.

Crowley was certain that Sam knew something was wrong, realized he was a bit jumpy, but never said a word. He probably assumed it was nothing, and with the upcoming end of the world, Crowley had every reason to see why he would think that.

Regardless, he was glad they never brought it up, and within a few days of working and going over files, they were on their way to track down a lead they had up in Alabama. The house was oddly quiet after that, not bringing into account his abundance of dogs he had crawling out of the woodworks, but he was use to their sounds; to their paws padding on the wooden floors, and the chains on their necks clattering gently as their bodies thumped against the floor once they laid down. Soft barking and whines now and again, but his dogs were always well behaved.

It was when he was finishing filling up their food bowls, a few days later, when Bobby visited for the first time.

He didn't stay long, needless to say, he was actually rather brief and gave a short, curt summary of what was going on before disappearing again. Crowley simply assumed that's what was going to keep happening-- somewhat disappointed by the arrangement but never made to argue. But a few days later, he showed up again, this time with a clear glass in hand half filled with an amber coloured liquid, hand in pocket and tongue in cheek; he spent a little more time talking plans with the hunter than before.

After the fifth or sixth visit, he actually began sitting down. It was after the tenth visit that they began talking about something other than the end of the world.

Crowley eventually lost count of how often the demon was around anymore. Stopped trying to pretend that it bothered him that he was over a lot more than his own boys were. Sometimes they'd drink together, the demon always politely declining the beer he offered him, but Crowley couldn't find it in himself to care; they sometimes would talk for hours, about everything and nothing and about how strange the world would be if it were to actually end.

Sometimes they'd talk about books, movies, but never about music; they didn't talk about Lucifer as much as they probably should have, and often found themselves comparing stories to what they'd believe would happen if it ever truly got that far.

Some day's, they'd never even bring it up.

Sometimes Bobby would get Crowley talking, and never commented nor attempted to stop him as he went on for hours about his past. He'd talk about being a wee lad back in Scotland, about how his mother was a witch-- he even brought up Alastair once or twice, but never anything specific. Bobby would talk briefly about his life as a human, but mostly he just talks about the comings and goings of hell.

He was the right hand man of Lilith herself, Crowley found out. Found it inconceivable at first, seeing as he wasn't nearly as cruel as Crowley would think, but then he supposed, the nice attire did have to be for a reason. Or perhaps that's not why; Crowley didn't know, and never brought himself up to ask.

He was a demon, after all.

He remembers asking him where she would be, and if he knew. Bobby would only shake his head, stating that he hadn't seen her since the first seal had been broken, and if he knew, he'd be the first to tell.

Sometimes, surprisingly enough, Bobby's even helped him out on a few cases. Small things, here and there, with lore he was far more familiar with than the hunter was, and he'd tell him how to gank the bastard, and what exactly it was. He saved a lot of time researching, that was for certain, and on a few occasion's, he's even sat down with him and read through his books with him.

Crowley had brought up the courage to ask why.

Bobby simply responded that he promised to help the hunter if possible, and that their deal wasn't solely based on stopping the end of the world.

Months began passing quickly, and soon the Apocalypse was becoming a frightening reality, especially with the last 6 seals left unbroken. Time was becoming scarce, and it didn't take much longer for the boys to become acquainted with the demon. They didn't like him, not in the least, and in this point in time, they still didn't know about their little deal-- Crowley was planning on waiting until they have the end of the world averted before he brings up the strength to tell them.

They were weary around Bobby, and he certainly couldn't blame them; they didn't exactly get a great explanation as to why a demon was helping them out. But they put their faith and trust in Crowley that he knew what he was doing, and what he was getting into-- Crowley knew that perhaps they shouldn't be so trusting of himself, seeing as he's never been quite a good judge in character, but they did.

Bobby had come to him when the boy's had fallen asleep, and he said that the last seal was coming up real soon. He didn't know what it was, or how it was going to be broken, but he knew it was coming very shortly. He seemed rather befuddled, and in the middle of him talking, the room shook slightly, and he disappeared mid-sentence.

Summoned, obviously, specifically for him.

Crowley didn't see him for week's after that, and strangely enough, hadn't heard a word from Alastair either. And with the last seal coming close, and Sam acting all... well, all _jumpy_ as of late, Crowley was struggling to find out what he was supposed to do.

He _needed_ Bobby here with him, he needed his help, but he never responded to his calls, nor did he show up once summoned. Crowley had a terrible nagging feeling that something was wrong, but no matter how much he fretted, he knew he had other things he had to worry about.

That being said, his boy's always _always_ came first.

Before heaven, before hell, and certainly before just another demon.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and thank you to everyone for reading. This was also self-beta read, and so I'm terribly sorry for all the messy mistakes here and there. I'll go through it again later on, and hopefully get all of that fixed. //Crobby to ensue next chapter. Thank you, very much for reading to everyone, and I hope you all enjoyed. ^^


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